The Last of the House of Durin: The Blossom Amongst the Thorn
by Luckynumber28
Summary: Dwalin/OC/Legolas. After giving his word to Thorin as he lay dying, Dwalin takes his position as protector of his King's only daughter very seriously. On a journey to west of the Misty Mountains, Dwalin begins to wonder what his role in her life really entails. A continuation of my story, "One Hundred Years".
1. A Journey West

Dwalin watched his young charge as she played with Balin's granddaughters, the dwarfling girls merrily braiding her jet black curls back from her square face. Drawing a mouth of smoke from his pipe, he chuckled as Thistle smiled. Tendrils of pipe weed drifted up around his deeply lined face.

"I believe this is the happiest I've seen the girl since her arrival in Erebor." Balin commented contently, propping his feet up on the unoccupied stool before him.

"Aye," Dwalin nodded, "It's been a dark winter."

Balin's wife appeared beside the dwarves, perching her hands on her hips as she looked pointedly from her husband to the table still strewn with crockery from their evening meal. Balin sighed, arching a brow at her.

"Woman," Balin muttered, stirring from his comfortable seat, "After all these years with my loving attentions, can't you let your husband enjoy a pipe with his brother?"

"Miska," Dwalin pointed his pipe at his sister in law, "You put this lazy thug to work. He needs to know what it takes to keep a woman happy."

"Ach!" Miska's face furrowed, her brows still strikingly dark beneath a mass of whitening curls, "And what would you know of keeping a woman happy, brother Dwalin? A bachelor your whole life? And even after I tried to match you with my cousin, Silka?"

Balin grinned and winked at his brother. Dwalin shrugged with a smirk, turning back to watching Thistle play with the two young dwarves before the roaring hearth. As Balin and Miska each took a stack of plates and bowls towards the kitchen, his face became drawn.

Truth be told, he had no idea how to make a woman happy, much less a young girl mourning the loss of both her parents. He shifted in his chair uneasily.

All he had felt capable of doing in the few months since Thorin's death was to make sure all her basic needs were met. If her eyes grazed over anything displayed at the budding markets of the newly founded Dale, he would immediately buy it for her. However, he had barely managed to merit anything from her more than a thankful smile and a passing touch on his shoulder. Though she hadn't meant to, Miska had dug up the one fear that had plagued him since Thistle had come into his life. An old bachelor dwarf as himself had no idea how to keep a young girl happy.

"Come along, lasses." Miska's demanding tone broke up the play before the fire, "I'm sure Mistress Thistle is no mood to have her hair pulled anymore."

"I'm don't mind, Lady Miska," Thistle replied, one of the girls squirming in her arms, "Unless you need them to get to bed."

Balin came up behind his wife and laid a hand on her shoulder. He whispered something into her ear that Dwalin could not make out. Miska's fierce expression softened.

"Just a few more moments." Miska conceded, her husband nodding with a gentle smile towards Thistle.

"So your plans remain as they were yesterday?" Balin asked, leaning against the table before his brother as his wife disappeared into their kitchen once more.

"Aye," Dwalin nodded, looking down at his tattooed fingers as he cupped the pipe in his large hands, "Gandalf will travel with us across the mountains. It would be good for the girl to have a change of scenery. She has not seen her grandmother in months."

Balin nodded solemnly, "And you will still accompany them?"

"There is no way I wouldn't." Dwalin replied firmly as he leant his forearms on his knees.

Balin did not argue. Since the Battle of the Five Armies, Dwalin had remained staunchly faithful to his promise to the dying King. He had become fiercely protective of the girl, the last of the house of Durin. They had made a strange pair. Diminutive yet beardless, Thistle's handsomely strong features were still fresh with youth despite having just recently celebrated her one hundredth birthday. Meanwhile, with her beastly companion clad in heavy dwarf fur and leather close by, no young dwarf had yet to try his luck at winning her affections.

"It'll be spring soon enough brother," Dwalin stood, slapping a hand on his shorter yet older sibling's arm, "The passes over the mountains will have cleared enough by the time we make it through Mirkwood."

Balin's face darkened, "Gandalf is still taking you through that damnable wood?"

"I feel the two of us will be able to handle anything that comes our way." Dwalin shrugged as Miska returned, helping Thistle as they scurried the children to bed.

"But what about the girl?"

"What of Thistle?"

"She should learn to defend herself." Balin crossed his arms over his chest, "From what she had told me, her mother was not found of weaponry. She herself only carries a short hunting knife. What good would that do against a spider or worse, a warg?"

Dwalin paused in thought. He knew the dwarf was right of course. Perhaps the activity would be a healthy distraction for her before their journey.

"Aye, I'll see to her lessons." Dwalin nodded.

Thistle returned, taking her place beside Dwalin obediently. Her face had taken on the same somber attitude of the past few weeks, the momentary joy she had experience already forgotten. Dwalin felt his heart fall. He couldn't bear seeing her so sad. Never before in his life had he felt more helpless.

* * *

"Axe or sword?" Dwalin lifted a heavy brow expectantly as they perused the armory of Erebor.

Thistle shrugged, trying to seem more enthusiastic than she felt. She wondered if she would be any good at what Dwalin was suggesting. She hated the thought of disappointing him. The kindly dwarf had been trying so tirelessly to please her since her arrival.

She scanned the finely forged swords and axes mounted on the walls. Her thoughts drifted back to that horrific night after the Battle of the Five Armies when she had entered the tent of her dying father. A strange blade lay beside the bed, still stained with gore from the battle.

"What did my father wield?" She asked.

"In the last months of his life, he came into possession of a sword of legend." Dwalin replied, stroking in beard in though, "Though it is of elvish make, the Biter was a fine weapon."

Thistle paused, "I wonder, would it be possible for me to carry the sword of my father?"

"Aye," Dwalin stiffened, "Would you not rather a dwavish weapon?"

Thistle's expression started to fall as she smiled obligingly. The dwarf suddenly looked concerned.

"Of course, lass." Dwalin started towards the door eagerly, "You may wield any weapon you wish."

Within a few moments, they stood in the broad training hall adjacent to the armory. Dwalin handed the sword to Thistle carefully. Thistle took the hilt from his hand and was surprised to find it lighter than it looked. However she should have known with it being of fine, elven make. She carefully unsheathed it, the sheer blade ringing softly as she set the ornate sheath on a nearby black stone bench.

"Usually, I would have liked you to learn with wooden swords at first," Dwalin stepped back as she glanced up at him, "However, as we leave in a few days' time, it would be best you learn while you can with the real thing."

Dwalin stepped forward. Patiently placing her hands on the hilt correctly, he lifted her arms by the wrists.

"A few things at first," Dwalin instructed, gripping his axe at his side, "Never lose your momentum; keep your blade swinging and your feet quick. A blade like this isn't meant for you to be on the offense. You must always be first to attack. Never be passive."

Thistle nodded, swallowing hard. She had always longed to learn a weapon, though her mother had expressively forbade it along with eating meat. However, now as she stood with her stomach roiling with nerves, she wondered if she was actually as fit for a blade as she had fancied.

They started with a few basic practice swings, Dwalin encouraging her as she swung the blade. She was surprised as he suddenly brought his axe up and blocked her expertly.

"Set blows aside with the flat of your blade," He instructed, pulling back, "Better yet, try to counter an attack with your edge against your opponent's flat. Don't be afraid to use your full weight in a thrust."

Thistle realized suddenly that she romanticized warfare. Such a thrust would certainly kill a person. She wondered if she would truly be capable of such a thing even if her own life were at stake. Deciding it was best not to consider such things, she set her concentration on what was before her.

They continued for a few hours till she felt as though her arms would give way. In a desperate attempt to bind his weapon, Thistle rushed forward with one hand above the hilt to give her extra leverage in the attack. Dwalin dodged her attempt. Thistle's ankle twisted as she missed him and fell to the hall's hard, marble floor. Dwalin was quickly at her side.

"That's enough for today." He said gruffly, taking the sword from her and setting it aside as she sat up, "Are you hurt?"

Thistle shook her head, massaging her ankle, "I don't think so."

Without a word, Dwalin lifted the hem of her skirt and inspected her joint himself. He turned it in his large hands, his brow furrowed in concern.

"I shouldn't have pushed you so hard." He berated himself quietly, "It was stupid of me."

"No, Dwalin," Thistle sat forward smirk, laying a hand over his wrist, "You are trying to prepare me for whatever we may encounter on the road."

Dwalin's gaze flickered up at her for a moment. He shrugged, letting her ankle loose.

"It's getting late and you need your rest." Standing, he held out a hand to help Thistle to her feet.

"You need yours." Thistle gripped his fingers as she steadied herself, "You look as though you have not rested in days."

Impulsively she reached out and laid a hand on his cheek. It was a gesture that had come to feel commonplace for her, she did it so often. She came to feel as much concern for her gruff protector as he did for her. It wasn't really the kind of affection towards a father or uncle, as she felt towards Balin. Dwalin had become her dearest friend. Seeing him wrung with concern over her wellbeing broke her heart.

She knew he had not been sleeping well since their decision to travel west. In the night, she would awaken in her own bed to hear him stirring in their common room. The forge attached to their quarters would soon start bellowing with fire as he would begin to fashion his dwarvish metal.

With their journey west looming before them, she hoped he would find rest that night.

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**Author's Note: Ok, I know he's not exactly as appealing as Kili or Fili or Thorin but I'm digging the beauty and beast vibe that is developing here so bear with me.**


	2. Dwalin's Redemption

In the wee hours of the night before dawn, Thistle awoke to the familiar clang of metal in the forge nearby. Thistle started to blink away the sleep. They were scheduled to leave for Mirkwood the next morning where they would meet Gandalf.

She could feel the frustration rise in her chest as she sat up fully awake. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed to the chilled stone floor, she tugged a dark red shawl over her nightgown.

Sure enough as she cracked the door to the forge open, she could see Dwalin bent over his work. She couldn't imagine what he was working on the eve of their journey. He was bent over an anvil, the firelight skimming over his bare, knotted arms exposed from his sleeveless grey homespun and heavy leather apron. His long greying hair was tucked in a rough braid down his broad back. With more force than necessary, he was hammering a hot red shard of metal with intense concentration. Thistle's eyes widened in the weak light as she drew closer. The door creaked as she accidentally brushed it.

Dwalin straightened, tightening his grip on the hammer. His gaze drifted to the door where she stood. Thistle froze, feeling suddenly foolish for being caught spying like a child. He dropped his arm, running a rough hand over his beard.

"Thistle," He growled, looking towards the bellows, "You should be abed, girl."

Thistle pushed the door open as a spark of indignation came to life in her belly.

"You will be leaving at the same time I do tomorrow." She protested, clasping her hands before her and lifting her chin, "Dwalin, you need to give yourself some rest. You've been days like this."

"That t'would be lovely," He turned towards the heavy vat of water nearby, the metal sizzling as he dipped it in, "But I cannae, Thistle."

Steam drifted towards her through the hot air. Dwalin set the hammer down and walked towards the bellows, starting to pump them. The fire roared to life, revealing that his tattooed scalp and arms were slick with sweat.

"You haven't spoken of this before." Thistle settled herself against the edge of a short wooden table, "Why can't you sleep?"

Dwalin didn't answer for a moment but continued to stoke the fire. Thistle sat patiently, knowing that it might take him a moment to collect his thoughts. Dwalin was not the kind of dwarf to whom words came easily. He needed the attention of his audience and time to voice his heart. Speaking his mind was one thing but what he felt was a whole over story. Something about his lack of peace made her think that whatever was plaguing him was eating away at his heart.

Sighing, Dwalin paused and leant against the forge.

"It's this place, lass." He admitted without looking over at her, "It brings back a time when your father was alive and well. His death and the deaths of your young cousins have taken a larger toll on me than I had thought."

He approached the anvil and picked up the hammer once more, swinging its weight around in his grip. As Thistle watched him, she felt pain for her grief stricken friend sear her heart. Since they had buried the remaining males of the house of Durin, Dwalin had not mentioned their passing.

"Thistle," Dwalin breathed heavily and glanced up at her tentatively, "I feel personally responsible for what happened to them."

At this admission, Thistle rose and approached the dwarf. He did not look at her as she softly laid a hand on his forearm. He turned his dark, narrow gaze on her after a moment.

"You are all I have left, girl." He reached out with his free hand, brushing her dark curls over her shoulder, "If anything were to happen to you, I don't know if I could bear it. You are my last chance at redemption for my failure."

"Dwalin, you never failed." Thistle spoke just above a whisper, "The Battle of the Five Armies was a terrible day. The only one stained with the blood of your people is the hand of the enemy who massacred them."

The corner of Dwalin's mouth lifted, "They are your people too, girl. They always have been, even before you knew it."

Thistle nodded solemnly. Truthfully, she had thought feeling at home in Erebor would be an easier venture. Though she loved the passion and vitality of the dwarf culture, she had begun to sense that she did not fully belong. It was the same feeling she had when she was growing up in the glade where she and her mother had lived. The realization that she may never feel at home anywhere terrified her.

Dwalin nodded towards the door and arched a brow, "You best be getting some rest before tomorrow. Dawn will be here soon enough."

Thistle started to obey but paused as she reached the door.

"I will go to bed when you go to bed." She announced stubbornly, returning to the table where she had been sitting earlier.

"Thistle…" Dwalin growled, tossing her a threatening glance.

Thistle ignored him, gathering her bare feet up under her nightgown as she pulled herself onto the table. Dwalin studied her with a smirk. Sighing he turned toward his work as she lay down. Soon the warmth of the room and the consistent pounding of metal lulled Thistle into a light sleep.

It felt like moments later that she was being lifted by strong arms. The metallic smell of sweat and smoke invaded her senses as she compulsively tightened her grip on the rough fabric of Dwalin's shirt. Soon she felt him slowly lowering her into her own familiar sheets. As she started to drift into slumber once more, she felt him gently brush her loose curls from her face. He breathed a strange word in khuzdul with which she was not yet familiar.

As she heard the door close behind him, she felt a strange absence in her belly. As the clang of the forge started to echo through their quarters once more, Thistle was surprised to find herself wishing he had remained and held her till she slept once more.

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**Goldspleen: you are so sweet! thank you for your reviews! I'm glad you are liking them together as much as I am. I know some readers might think the pairing could be creepy because of an age difference but I think they're fun (: for now that is, we'll see where it goes. I'm literally flying by the seat of my pants with this one. I hope you enjoyed the fluff of this chapter!**


	3. Spiders on the Borders of Mirkwood

It was just a day's journey from the Lonely Mountain to the edge of the great forest that had once been known as Greenwood. The years of evil dwelling in the ancient fortress of Dol Guldor had diminished the wood's brightness and it's once regal pathways were gummed by spider webs. However, as she had avoided the forest completely on her original route to Erebor, Thistle was ignorant to the decayed state of the forest.

Balin, however, had not forgotten. As Dwalin and Thistle packed their ponies in the late winter dawn, the dwarf's brother came to bid them farewell.

"You mustn't take the Old Forest road, brother." Balin advised as soon as Thistle was out of hearing range, "That will lead you too close to the evil fortress. Remember what Gandalf warned us."

"Of course not, brother." Dwalin clapped a hand on Balin's shoulder, "I would not lead Thistle anywhere near that hellish place."

Balin sighed, shaking his snowy head, "And you are sure you will meet Gandalf by tomorrow?"

"Yes, Balin." Dwalin crossed his massive arms across his heavily armored chest, "The darkness has subsided since the Battle of Five Armies. Elves will not be interested in just two travelers making their way down a well-known road."

Thistle returned, lugging a saddle freshly oiled in preparation for their journey. She was clad in a tan leather tunic belted at the waist and trimmed at the shoulders with black fur for warmth. Thick traveling boots that laced over her trousers started at her knees. She wore the same dark green cloak that she had arrived in months earlier. Balin smiled as she turned to him and gripped her forearms affectionately.

"Dear one," The corner of Balin's mouth drooped, "I am aggrieved to see you leave the mountain but I hold on to the hope of seeing you again soon."

Thistle pulled the dwarf into an embrace. She breathed deeply, finding that he smelled similarly to his younger brother. It was that same rich mix of metal, fire and sweat. As she pulled away, she found herself musing whether her father had had the same essence while he lived. Balin patted her upper arm as Thistle turned towards Dwalin where he stood patiently by her pony. Without being asked, he lifted her onto the animal as easily as if she were a child.

"Till next time, Dwalin." Balin's lower lip trembled slightly as Dwalin touched his forehead to his brother's.

"Do not worry yourself, brother." Dwalin instructed as he grasped the reins of both his and Thistle's ponies, "I promised to keep her safe."

Thistle raised a gloved hand to Balin as they turned down the road leading out from the shadow of the mountain. Dwalin mounted his pony as soon as they reached the open plain where part of the Battle of the Five Armies had been fought. Turning back one last time, Thistle gazed at the solitary peak rising to the heavens messy with white cloud and a rosy dawn. Without warning, she felt her throat thicken with grief. She wondered what her parents would think of her departing from Erebor so soon.

"You all right, lass?"

Thistle turned back towards her companion. Dwalin arched a brow at her pointedly, his mouth drawn in concern. Giving a breathy smile, Thistle smoothed back a few dark tendrils of hair that had pulled loose from her braid.

"I'm well." She replied, blinking back the tears that were starting to subside.

Dwalin shifted in his saddle, his brow still furrowing with worry over her. He looked exhausted and they had yet to even make a half day's ride. Though she did not speak it, Thistle knew the one to be concerned about was him.

As he had predicted, Dwalin and Thistle reached the looming border of the forest now known as Mirkwood by the time the sun was setting. Thistle peered up into the spindly branches, still bare with winter. A few errant black birds cried out mournfully as they skirted across the dark purple sky. The cold twilight was drawing on fast.

Dwalin had already dismounted and was looking on the deeply shadowed eaves before them with unveiled repulsion.

"What a dark, nasty place." He grumbled as he walked over to Thistle's pony.

"This place is nothing like the forests in the west is it?" Thistle asked as Dwalin grasped her waist, lightly setting her on the half frozen earth.

She looked into his face as he peered into the forest that lay ahead. He grimaced, loosening his grip on her middle and gathering dry brush nearby.

"Keep your wits about you, girl." He directed, "Would you see to the ponies while I start a fire?"

Thistle did not reply as she gathered the reins of their two nags and started to lead them towards a dead tree that stood slightly apart from wood's border.

"Not so close, Thistle." Dwalin called out.

Thistle turned towards him as he sat up, his arms full of kindle, "Why not? I'm not going in there."

"Doesn't matter." Dwalin's tone grew sharp, "Just do as I tell ye'."

Thistle fought back the wave of indignation at having to take his orders without a say. However, she knew he was merely looking out for her.

She had never been so close to the great forest of legend, though she had once heard of it from her grandmother. Goldberry had spoken of the stately beauty of the Greenwood, its massive trees and clear streams as pure as those at the beginning of the world. However, Thistle was certain Goldberry would not know this place now for what it was an age ago.

The inky of shadow of the moonless night soon wrapped the travelers in its uneasy embrace. Thistle studied Dwalin from across the fire. Lines of exhaustion etched under his dark eyes.

"You sleep tonight." He instructed, tearing a strip of dried venison with his teeth, "I'll keep watch."

Thistle took a breath to protest but stopped when he glared up at her.

"Dwalin, did you get any sleep last night?" She inquired stubbornly.

"I'll be fine, lass."

His tone was enough to end the conversation. Sulkily, Thistle spread her cloak on the ground next to her. The cry of a horned owl echoed into the clearing from somewhere in the forest. Thistle laid a hand on the bare ground and closed her eyes. Listening to the earth as her mother had taught her, she could tell that this place was wounded.

A great evil had taken up residence there and though the majority of the poison had been drawn as from a wound, there was still a shadow on the forest. Shivering, Thistle pulled her hand away and curled it against her breast. Her muscles, sore from riding, began to relax. Presently, she was lulled into an uneasy slumber by the popping of the dying sparks of the fire.

The chill of the first glow of dawn awoke Thistle. Her eyes bleary with a restless night's sleep, she focused on the form of Dwalin. The large dwarf had drifted to sleep sitting up, his arms crossed over his chest and his head drooping into his thick beard. Tendrils of dying smoke from the remnants of their campfire laced around his form.

Suddenly from out of the shadows and mist of the nearby wood, the pitched cry of a wounded animal reached Thistle's ears. She sat up abruptly. A grey dawn had just started to touch the sky to the east over the jagged tree tops. Dwalin was still sound asleep. Wrapping her cloak about her, Thistle tugged her braid messy with sleep over her shoulder and gazed wide eyed in the direction of the sound.

She had grown up answering the wounded cry of an animal immediately. She recalled racing through her home forest in every season, trailing behind her mother to come to the aid of fox pups or flightless birds. It was a second instinct to her.

Though she knew Dwalin had warned her not to venture too close, the wounded cry rose in agony. She strapped her father's sword, which lay next to her, around her hips. Unable to ignore it any longer, Thistle stood quietly and tip toed away from the safe vicinity of her protector. She had grown up taking care of herself and the forest could not be half as bad as Dwalin believed. She had sensed from the earth that past evening that most of the evil had subsided. Deciding not to speak of the matter to Dwalin if it came to nothing, she approached the border of Mirkwood.

Stepping gingering under the low hanging branch of an ancient oak, she skirted a gnarled root bursting from the dark earth. She brushed aside a curtain of moss swaying in the misty breeze. The cry quickly became intermingled with the faint rush of water. Thistle breathed in the damp rot of the forest thawing from a long winter. Following the sound of the water, she cagily made her way through the trees as the night continued to fade.

She soon found an underground stream flowing out from a cavity of roots from a fallen tree. The animal's whimper became more frenzied and was closer than earlier. As she turned in the direction of it, Thistle paused. She reached out tentatively towards a mass of gossamer strands swaying in the heavy air from a pine. The material was sticky to the touch.

The cry came sharp once more, startling Thistle from her discovery. Brushing the mysterious white strands from her fingers, she strode with purpose towards the animal. Soon she came to a short clearing. There on a mossy boulder at the center lay a young fawn squirming like a reluctant sacrifice on an altar. Thistle raced towards the fawn without thought. The animal turned towards her with intense fear but did not seem to be able to move its limbs.

Perplexed, Thistle shushed the animal and began to inspect its body. There were no gaping cuts or broken bones but she did find a strange puncture at its hind quarters. A sickly green white pus oozed from what looked like an insect bite. However, Thistle could not imagine what size creature could inflict such a wound.

There came a rustling behind her.

She spun, her veins starting to pump with adrenaline as she caught sight of a large shadow scuttling behind a tree. The fawn started to gasp. Thistle turned back just in time for the fawn to breathe its last and its wide eyes to glaze over with death. Another shadow scuttled away from out of the corner of her eye. Thistle carefully drew the blade called Orchist. Brandishing it with shaking hands, she approached the looming trees where the shadows had disappeared. Her heart pounded in her ears.

Peeking around the massive oak trunk, she saw nothing. However, an ill dread started to spread across her heart like spilled ink. The dead, brown husks of leaves from above suddenly dusted her shoulders. Gripping the hilt of her sword, Thistle looked up into the eaves and watched a giant spider descend rapidly towards her. Its legs were spread and poisonous stinger dripping as she froze in terror.

As quick as a lightening streak, a feathered arrow cut through the air and into the belly of the spider. It screeched as it fell to the ground before her. Broken from her stupor, Thistle clumsily sunk the blade into its squirming body. Two more of the hellish monsters emerged from the wood, scuttling towards her with deadly speed.

From out of the wood, a stranger suddenly appeared. He dove before her, pinning the spider with three arrows faster than any archer that she had ever seen. The remaining spider spit out a web of the material she had found nearby, catching her shin. Orchist's fine blade sang as she sliced through the web. Before she could attack, the stranger filled the monster with another volley of arrows, killing it.

The forest around them had grown deadly silent with the attack. Standing back to back with the mysterious archer, Thistle struggled to catch her breath. The stranger strode towards the first spider by the tree, firing one last arrow into its twitching body for good measure. Turning towards her where she stood stunned, the stranger pulled back the light grey hood of his tunic revealing long fair hair and the pointed ears of an elf.

"Are you unhurt?" He asked directly, meeting her gaze fiercely before he started to pace the clearing with a guarded look to the trees.

"Yes." Thistle managed to breath, looking down at her blade covered in gore.

It dawned on her that those foul creatures were the first living things she had ever killed. She tried not to think of what her mother's reaction would have been. No doubt Thorin would have been proud.

"What are you doing in this corner of the wood alone?" The elven archer stalked towards Thistle once more, his sharp blue eyes bearing down on her.

Thistle had been in the company of elves in the past. They had mostly been passing wood elves, so very beautiful but quiet and kind. This one had a different look about him. She had heard from Goldberry of some of the elves that lived in Greenwood that they descended from a more ancient and sacred line of fair folk from across the sea. The archer's gaze was fiercely direct and wise, even under the strained nature of their meeting.

"My companion and I are travelers," Thistle managed to choke out, her eyes dropping to the ground, "I heard the fawn crying out and came to investigate."

"Alone?" He demanded, "Did you companion not warn you of the dangers of such an action or is he as ignorant of the dangers of Mirkwood as you are?"

Thistle felt her neck and cheeks burst with embarrassment over her foolishness.

"He warned me." She replied honestly, unable to look up, "I confess I did not listen."

"Well now you know first-hand. Can you make it back to your friend alone?"

Thistle recalled hearing of the enmity between the dwarves of Erebor and elves, especially those of the Woodland realm. Though they had united against the hordes of orc and goblin that had attacked the Lonely Mountain at the Battle of the Five Armies, it was an uneasy alliance. Thistle could only imagine Dwalin's angry reaction if she returned under the protection of an elf.

"Yes." She mumbled, "Thank you."

The archer approached her, reached out surprisingly. Lifting her chin with his knuckle, she felt her stomach roil with nerves as he studied her face. She couldn't help but sense that his interest went beyond her well-being. She wet her lips nervously, averting her eyes under his scrutiny. He loosed her without a word, striding across the glade.

"Be on your way, my lady." He advised, disappearing without warning into the shadows as silently as he had arrived.

Thistle took a moment to catch her breath. The birds were starting to return to the clearing, lighting onto the branches where a few errant shards of sunlight were banishing the mist. Soon she heard a heavy crashing come through the wood.

"Thistle!" She heard Dwalin bellow, his voice frightening the birds from their perches.

She gasped, stirring as though from a dream and started to run in the direction of the dwarf's voice. She soon saw him cutting through the brush with one of his massive axes. The moment he caught sight of her, he dropped his weapon and strode towards her.

"What did I tell ye, lass?" He demanded, taking her in his arms roughly, "I saw webs and feared the worst. What were ye thinking?"

"There was a wounded fawn crying out through the wood," She explained, resting her cheek on his shoulder as he smoothed back her braid.

"That was unwise, lass." He chided pulling away, his face relaxing.

"It had been wounded by a spider." She found herself confessing, "It tried to attack me but I killed it."

She lifted her stained sword as though displaying the evidence. Dwalin's brow furrowed in concern as he looked back from the sword to her.

"Never again leave my side like that when we are in a place like this, d'ye hear me?"

Thistle nodded as he grasped her hand and started to lead her to the border once more. Glancing back, Thistle swore for a moment that she saw a tall, watchful figure disappear behind a mass of tree trunks behind them.

* * *

**Author's Note: Just for fun, I started a tumblr to collect a few ideas for "One Hundred Years" and "Last of the House of Durin" with inspiration for characters and places, . My husband thinks I'm pretty lame but oh well, I'm having a grand time.**


	4. In the Halls of Thranduil

**Author's Note: For those unfamiliar with the "Lord of the Rings", Tolkien wrote of a couple characters in "The Fellowship" called Goldberry and Tom Bombadil that were not included in the movies. I suggest googling them or even better reading the books because they are really fascinating. Anyway, Goldberry was Lirare's mother and thus Thistle's grandmother. Just a head's up.**

* * *

After gathering their campsite, Thistle and Dwalin rambled down a trail through the wood that had been newly made. The trees were still reeling from being cut back from the road. Thistle tried to ignore their groaning that she distinctly felt in her spirit. The whole forest seemed to be rocked by the evil that invaded its once bright eaves.

"What happened here?" Thistle asked Dwalin where she rode next to him on the narrow path.

Dwalin shrugged, his hand instinctively going to the axe handle strapped at his saddle.

"Last we were here, there was a spider attack. Gandalf implied there was some evil dwelling in the old elf fortress." Dwalin shivered despite the growing humidity of the forest, "I'd like not to consider such things."

Thistle scanned the shadowed wood. Spots of sunlight burst at random through the thick canopy overhead but it was a gnarled and ancient forest. She found herself wishing for the familiar copses of her own home forest where her mother had raised her. It pained her heart what she felt these trees crying out. This had once been a place of unmatched beauty. Now it felt like an untended wound, festering with rot.

"We should be meeting Gandalf soon." Dwalin commented, looking up at the sun that had reached its apex overhead, "Might as well stop for a time."

After seeing to the ponies, Thistle and Dwalin sat down uneasily to a meal of dried meat and husks of hardened seed cake. While they chewed quietly, Thistle considered whether she should tell Dwalin of her encounter with the elf in the wood. She looked over at him where he perched on a fallen oak, eyeing his surroundings with distrust.

"There is more than just spiders that worries you." Thistle stated bluntly.

Dwalin shifted, lifting a brow at her, "The Elven King of this place is not particularly fond of dwarves. Your father and our company were captured and imprisoned the last time we were here."

Thistle looked down at her half eaten cake uncomfortably. She remembered the elf spying them through the wood as they had walked away. If he were a part of the elven kingdom, there was the possibility he would tell his master of their presence.

"I thought since the Battle of Five Armies, you have come to an understanding with the elves of the Greenwood?" She asked, not meeting his gaze.

Dwalin scoffed, "So they say, but I have my doubts. Come now, we must be on our way. I should like to spend as little time as possible in this place."

They travelled into the coming twilight. Thistle had hoped they would meet with Gandalf before the night fell. The forest grew dark quickly, a deadly silence accompanying it. Both Dwalin and Thistle felt reluctant to stop but they knew it would be safer than continuing on the dark road.

They lit a small fire, keeping the ponies close in a nearly overgrown glade they had found to set up camp. Thistle knew she would find no rest that night.

"We should be gone from this place by tomorrow." Dwalin commented as Thistle laid her head on a cushion of dry moss.

The mood was tense, drying up all attempts at conversation. However, despite the unrest in her heart, Thistle's eyelids were heavy with exhaustion. The day had been long and she had not slept well the night prior. She felt herself slip into a light sleep.

It was an unearthly screech that awoke her. Then it was Dwalin shaking her that roused her completely. Thistle's heart beat hard in her chest, banishing any fatigue with the rush of fear. Dwalin was frantically stoking the fire, the flames rising. Thistle sat up as another cry rang through the wood.

"What is that?" She whispered, tugging her sword close to her.

"Goblins, orcs," Dwalin replied, picking up his axe and swinging it in his hand, "I cannae tell. Ready yourself, lass. Remember what we practiced in Erebor."

Thistle obeyed, drawing her blade from the scabbard and standing with her back to Dwalin's. The campfire cast strange shadows on the contorted trunks of the trees around them. Her senses reeling with terror, Thistle caught sight of a strange, bent figure moving through the wood followed by more.

"Where did they come from?" She breathed, gripping Orchist's hilt.

"The fortress," Dwalin growled, brandishing an axe in his fist, "That bloody elf fortress."

The creatures advanced. Thistle braced herself as they approached. She could feel the earth humming at her feet. The trees seemed to be itching under the sod. In the wood of her grandmother, the ethereal Goldberry River-daughter, Thistle had seen such things occur when the trees moved by their own will. As the nightmarish figures of the small band of orcs appeared in the firelight, their mutilated faces contorted with bloodlust, Thistle felt the very roots of the wood start to rock. She closed her eyes as a tide of treeish voices burst into her mind. Thistle did not see the first of the great roots emerge from the ancient ground.

"Mahal!" Dwalin cried swinging his axe and charging the lead orc.

Thistle opened her eyes to see one of the orcs squealing as it was crushed into the earth by the root of a great oak. A cedar branch swept away two more, killing them with the force of the blow. Dwalin made quick work of two of the orcs as the trees started to sway with rage. Thistle dropped Orchist in shock. The trees and Dwalin quickly dispersed of the first wave of attack, the remaining orcs slinking back before running into the night.

With a grunt, Dwalin jerked his axe from the body of one fell creature. Stunned, he approached the tree root that still held an orc corpse in its vicelike grip.

"What in the name of Durin…" Dwalin mumbled.

Another foreign sound echoed through the wood. The unearthly screams of the remaining orc party followed what sounded like the fine note of a horn. Thistle picked up Orchist from the forest floor, the firelight dancing off of Dwalin's face as he approached her.

"First orcs, then homicidal trees and now wood elves." He growled, kicking dirt over the flames to douse them, "Where in the name of Mahal is Gandalf?"

A figure formed from the shadows followed by several more. Dwalin turned, the fire light weakly revealing the fair faces of the silvan elves. Their silver hoods hung low over their faces as they stood with their bows at the ready. The tallest of the party stepped forward, pausing briefly by the tree containing the lifeless body. He tugged his hood back.

"I knew your blood could not be all dwarf when I saw you this morning." The elf from the spider attack approached Thistle.

"What do you want, elf?" Dwalin took a step in front of Thistle, his body tense.

The elf glanced at him dismissively, "You have disturbed what fragile peace this forest has had since Mithrandir rid us of the evil in Dol Guldor. We must know why." He turned back to Thistle, "I believe it has something to do with your companion here."

Thistle's knees buckled under the direct gaze of the elf leader.

"We seek Mithrandir." Thistle found herself explaining as the elf circled them, "We are not your enemy."

"I can tell that." He commented, eyeing Orchist, "But there is no denying your presence has awakened something in Mirkwood. You must come with us to see my father."

With a swift nod to his elven archers, they were quickly upon Dwalin and Thistle before they could fight back. Dwalin struggled as they bound his wrists.

"Ach!" He cried, "So much for the legendary courtesy of the elves! Let us be on our way!"

"Why must we see your father?" Thistle asked, an elf tying her hands behind her back, "Who is he?"

The elf stepped in front of her, his eyes flashing with curiosity underneath dark brows, "He likes to be aware of those traveling through his realm. Especially ones with such an effect on our home as you have had, my lady."

"We mean you no harm."

"Perhaps you don't mean us harm but still, harm you may cause us."

"Who are you?" She demanded as an archer led her away.

"Legolas Greenleaf of the Woodland Realm." He answered before turning to a companion.

Dwalin angrily spit on the ground next to her, "Just as well, the haughty princeling of the old King."

Thistle looked back at Legolas as he and another elf inspected the trees in the glade, "The prince?"

"He said he saw you this morning?" Dwalin asked, eyeing her curiously.

Thistle bit her lip, "When the spiders attacked, he came from the wood and helped save me."

Dwalin grew quiet at the confession, "And you did nae' speak to me of it."

The elves pushed Dwalin ahead before Thistle could explain herself. However, the way he had turned from her made her wonder if he would listen to her explanation.

The elves knew their way easily as they traversed the ancient, dark paths. Dwalin remained strangely silent as he was led, which worried Thistle more than what was to happen to them. As they moved through the night, Thistle sensed a shift in the earth. It was lighter in this part of the wood, the evil falling away like a shadow as they drew near to the Elven realm.

Thistle's breath caught in her throat as they were guided into a glade. Even in the faint moonlight, she could make out the regal columns and awe inspiring gate of the Halls of Thranduil. Her grandmother had once spoken of it when Thistle was a child. It had been made to look like the great halls of Doriath in the far gone ages. Thistle found herself wishing it was daylight so she could see it in all its grandeur.

Once they entered into the ornate caves, the twisting columns of stone seemed like the trunks of trees in the grey silver light that illuminated their way. Only Dwalin and Thistle's footsteps echoed as the elves walked lightly. It was nothing like the caves of Erebor, rather these were more sweeping and blooming. Thistle sensed the rock as though it were living like the greenery in the forest.

The way through the halls was a blur but soon they entered a grand room. A throne of intricate silver and green crowned a dais before them. It was so bright it did not seem as though they were underground. Thistle felt her knees grow weak with awe as a figure turned towards them.

Thistle knew instantly she was looking at one of the most ancient beings she had ever seen. Tall and fair, King Thranduil's face was youthful but ancient at the same time. He held the same mystique as her grandmother did, eternal and young simultaneously. As he descended the sweeping steps, Dwalin and Thistle were brought before him. He wore a robe of silver and green, a crown edged in the colors of the autumn adorned his head.

"So these are the visitors my son spoke of earlier today?" Thranduil approached, eyeing Dwalin with disinterest, "A dwarf."

He turned his attention on Thistle. His gaze was just as undoing as his son's, if not more.

"And what are you?" He lifted a finger, tipping her chin up to meet his gaze.

She wavered, her breath coming fast, "My mother named me Thistle."

"And who was your mother?" Thranduil studied her face with interest, his thumb gently clipped her chin.

"My Lord Thranduil!" A familiar voice echoed through the Hall.

Thistle nearly collapsed with relief as she turned to see Gandalf striding into the Hall.

"Mithrandir." Thranduil nodded towards him, "Do you know these travelers?"

"Yes, your grace." Gandalf panted as he came up beside Thistle, "I can assure you, they mean no harm. If you would be so kind as to untie them."

Thranduil eyed Gandalf for a moment before giving a nearby elf a curt nod. Swiftly cutting her bonds first, Dwalin snarled at the elf as he attended to him.

"Mithrandir," Thranduil kept his eyes on Thistle, "Who are they? Who is…she?"

"Good King," Gandalf took a step towards the elf, "She is the only kin of Goldberry, River-daughter."

The King's dark brows lifted in interest, "I had not known the River-daughter had a child."

"She had one, a daughter." Gandalf explained, "This is Goldberry's grandchild."

"That would explain her mixed lineage." Thranduil commented, "Is this dwarf her father?"

Dwalin choked out a laugh, "What is your interest in the maid, King?"

Thranduil ignored Dwalin. Gandalf placed a hand on Thistle's shoulder as silence fell.

"She is the child of Thorin Oakenshield." Gandalf confessed.

Thistle looked up at Thranduil whose gaze turned from the wizard. His iridescent blue eyes were like shards of glass as they swept over her.

"It was not long ago that your father stood where you are now, girl." His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, "He was brave but a fool."

Thistle stiffened but bit her lip. Dwalin exhaled fiercely only to be silenced by a glare from Gandalf.

"Let us hope you are not as foolish, River-child." Thranduil waved a hand at an elf nearby, "See them to their chambers. You will remain here for the night and rest."

It sounded more like an order than an invitation as they were led out.

"Do not fear," Gandalf whispered, his eyes narrowing underneath bushy brows, "I will see to this."

Thistle nodded as she and Dwalin were led into the shining halls. Dwalin kept his back to Thistle, not acknowledging her as the elves brought him down a separate hall. Thistle felt her heart pierced by his silence. Her grave guide did not look at her as he stopped by a high, complexly carved door. Opening it, she stepped in gingerly. The door closed firmly behind her. The room was large and windowless. It seemed like roots were growing through the walls. A day bed of fine linen sat on the glassy floor.

Thistle let out a shaky breath, dropping her cloak to the ground. Loosening her belt, she approached the bed. Even though she couldn't escape the feeling of being a prisoner to the elf king, she felt much more at peace in this place than out in the wild. It was not long before she drifted into a deep sleep. Her last thoughts were of the Prince's face as he studied her with awe and the disappointment that had pierced Dwalin's expression when he heard of her meeting the elf earlier in the day.


	5. A King's Proposition

Thistle awoke after what felt like mere moments. As she rose from the finely woven blankets scattered with leaves and moss from her clothes, she found she could not recall the last time she was so rested. Stretching her arms to the painted ceiling, Thistle stood and surveyed the room.

She noticed a gown draped over a high backed wooden chair in the corner. Nearby, a copper tub steamed with warm water. Remembering how quietly her hosts had strode through their halls, it did not surprise her that she had not awoken when they had brought in the bath.

Delicately, she lifted the dress into the light. The long folds of white fabric was shot through with silvery blue. It was the finest garment she had ever been given. Used to the rough, homespun of her upbringing, the cloth felt foreign between her fingers. Folding her traveling clothes aside, Thistle bathed quickly not knowing when her hosts would return.

After drying her damp hair with a soft towel, she tentatively stepped into the gown. Tugging the laces at the back that tied at the neck, she smoothed her palms over her torso. The dress fit as though it had been tailored to her. Long sheer sleeves trumpeted out at her elbows. At the sweeping neck edged with silver thread, a polished broach of dark blue was sewn over her breast bone. Pulling her long, dark curls over her shoulder, she stepped into the light silken slippers left by the door.

The realm of the elves was so different from that of the dwarves. In her isolated upbringing, Thistle had never realized their stark contrast.

She sat at the daybed for a few minutes, debating on whether she should try to leave the room on her own. The way Thranduil had spoken to them with such veiled suspicion, she decided it would be best to wait for an escort.

The door creaked open. Thistle stood abruptly, her hands clasped before her. She heaved a sigh of relief as the grey clad figure of Gandalf appeared in the doorway. He gave her a reassuring smile as he closed the door behind him.

"Have you slept well, my dear?" He asked, closing his hands behind his back.

"Why have they imprisoned us like this?" Thistle asked, unable to entertain pleasantries.

Gandalf's brow deepened, "It is a complicated thing, child. It has to do with you and your lineage."

"You mean my grandmother?" Thistle asked as the wizard took her hand, "Why had that mattered so much to the King?"

"You were brought up so innocent to the true nature of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry." Gandalf explained, "It was how your grandmother wanted and your mother. Did you ever wonder why Goldberry is called River-daughter?"

Thistle shook her head, her face starting to grow hot.

"She is a wild thing of this world, her being is not fully understood. But it is something more ancient and of the undying lands."

Thistle studied him, feeling as though she were still unable to grasp fully what he was saying. Gandalf sensed her confusion and motioned towards the day bed. Sitting on the rumbled blankets, he held her hands in his lap.

"Let me try to explain this a different way." Gandalf began, "Do you know why the trees reacted the way they did when you were in danger?"

Thistle shook her head.

"They were awakening in a way that has not been seen in this wood for many decades." He explained, patting the top of her hand, "It is because of you and your grandsires, dear one. Thranduil has been unable to awaken the trees in certain parts of this wood because of the evil of Dol Guldor. However, a child of the River-daughter has a certain way with the forest. Even though you are not as attuned to the natural world as your mother was because of your dwarven blood, you still sense the forest do you not?"

Thistle nodded, "My mother taught me how to as a child. It is second nature to me."

"It is a very special gift and one the elves did not expect in a half dwarven stranger."

"What do they want of me?" She asked tentatively.

"I am not sure yet," He replied, "Thranduil seems to have something in mind. To see the trees defend themselves as such is rare. With the evil still lingering in Greenwood, he is intrigued by your presence."

Thistle twisted her hands, "What should I do?"

"Be polite and tread carefully. He has not forgotten your father. I trust you possess the charm of your mother in such dealings even if you do not see it." Gandalf reached out a fatherly hand, gently pinching her chin, "You are a jewel, my dear. You must believe it for yourself. But we must go. We are to join the elves for dinner and I fear leaving Dwalin alone with our hosts for long."

Thistle couldn't help a smile at the thought of her burly protector in such a place, though the memory of their last parting made her wary.

Tucking her hand at Gandalf's elbow, Thistle followed him out into the passageway. Soon they came upon two elvish guards standing at either side of Dwalin's form. The dwarf had refused the clothes they had brought him and insisted on wearing his simple maroon shirt and leather overcoat. He nodded gruffly at them, his eyes dancing briefly off Thistle.

"So I see they have clothed ye now as their own." Dwalin commented dryly, lifting a brow, "The last of the house of Durin in elven robes."

"Keep your opinions to yourself, Dwalin son of Fundin." Gandalf reprimanded sharply as he handed Thistle over to the dwarf, "Especially this evening."

Dwalin grumbled as he took her hand on her arm. Thistle bristled from his brash words, her face burning. He made her feel out of place and silly in her fine gown, a wild child of the wood parading as an elvish lady. She reluctantly laid her hand on his arm, ignoring him as they followed Gandalf. Dwalin did the same, stiffly marching beside her.

They emerged into a great feasting hall open to the woods and sky. Trees filled with birdsong in the early afternoon were illuminated purple clouds over the mountains to the west. A few long tables being laid for a meal lined the room. There were a few elves present, elegantly moving to their places. In comparison, Thistle knew she was as clumsy as they were graceful. Her gaze fell in mortification.

"I am sorry for the way I spoke to ye, lass." Dwalin breathed low in her ear, "Hold your head high, you are a daughter of kings and fairer still than a gaggle of elf women."

Thistle looked over at him and smiled quietly, "And I am sorry for not telling of meeting Legolas sooner."

Dwalin nodded, placing a hand on her lower back, "I can understand yer reasonings."

Tossing her a clandestine wink, he took his seat at the opposite side of Gandalf. Thistle was surprised that they seated at the grandest table and terrified to see that it would be she at Thranduil's left hand. The head chair was inlaid with gold, sweeping upwards into the shape of a tree in bloom. Thistle felt herself start to tremble as horns announced the entrance of the king. Gandalf gave her fingers a reassuring squeeze.

The King was clad in a brown, satin robe over a long silver tunic. He still wore his imposing crown. White blonde hair fell over broad shoulders. His strange gaze drifted over Thistle, her eyes falling to the table as she curtseyed low. She wondered if Dwalin had acknowledged the King on the other side of Gandalf.

As Thranduil sat, the court did as well.

"Did you find your quarters comfortable, Mithrandir?" Thranduil asked graciously as an elf filled his cup with wine.

"Yes, sire." Gandalf replied.

"And you, River-child?" Thranduil asked without looking at her.

"Yes, my Lord." Thistle tried to keep her voice from wavering, "Thank you for your hospitality."

"You are not used to such surroundings I hear, coming from the wild forests of the west and halls of Erebor."

"No, my Lord." Thistle was thankful to see the King's son enter abruptly, preventing an awkward lag in conversation.

"I believe you have already met my eldest son, Legolas." Thranduil nodded towards the younger elf.

Legolas' face brightened at seeing Gandalf.

"Mithrandir," He said with a smile, the first time she had seen him do so, "How glad I am that you have come to our halls again."

"The pleasure is all mine I assure you, Prince." Gandalf nodded genuinely towards him.

"And our other guests?" Thranduil lifted a brow.

Legolas gave a brief nod to Dwalin who barely recognized him in return. He turned his attention to Thistle.

"My Lady, I would be honored if you would excuse our last meeting." Legolas bowed his head, "I must apologize for the measures we felt were necessary at the time."

Thistle shook her head, "It is forgotten, my Lord."

Legolas sat at the other side of his father, an elf coming up behind him to fill his cup. Thistle glanced up to find his eyes still on her, studying her with the same interest he had that morning. Her gaze flitted away, unable to handle the intensity of the young Prince.

"I should like to speak to you of a proposition I have, Lady Thistle." Thranduil began, "It is concerning your ability to reach the trees of Mirkwood."

"Yes, my lord?" She asked, taken off guard by his abruptness.

"Mithrandir has spoken to you of the evil that has spread through our forest. No doubt you have sensed it." Thranduil turned his full attention on her for the first time that evening, "It the trees can learn to defend themselves, darkness may not have such a foothold on his place."

"I cannot speak to them as my grandmother and mother could," Thistle admitted, "That was the first time I had ever experienced anything of that nature."

"Maybe your gifts as just coming to light due to your mortal blood." Thranduil reasoned, resting his chin against his knitted fingers, "Perhaps it just took the right environment."

"Perhaps, my King." Gandalf interjected, "But we cannot expect her to repeat such an event at will."

"Maybe with time." Thranduil kept his eyes on Thistle, "I mean you no harm, child. I should like to propose that this is your destiny, to help keep these woods alive as your grandmother does in the west."

"Sounds like it serves your purpose more than hers, King." Dwalin growled from the other side of Gandalf.

Thranduil ignored him, dipping a wafer of light bread into his red wine, "I would see that you are cared for and you would not be forced to live in my halls. You would have a home of your own in the wood, much like your mother and grandmother. I know you would be more comfortable in such a setting."

Thistle bit her lip, piercing a leaf of spinach with her fork, "May I think on your offer, my Lord?"

"Of course you may," Thranduil nodded, "I am not forcing this upon you. If you should chose to leave at dawn to continue your journey, I would bid you a fond farewell."

Thistle glanced up at Legolas who was lifting the cup to his lips. He met her eyes pointedly. Feeling her breath leave her under the penetrating gaze of the elven prince, she took a drink from her own cup. The wine burnt her throat.

"I shall give you my answer promptly, my Lord."

The rest of the evening continued with Gandalf, Thranduil and Legolas speaking of things that made little sense to Thistle. Dwalin remained dour and silent. The sky was soon burning with a wild sunset, a few elves starting to light candles about them.

Thistle bid Thranduil and the company a good evening, leaving with Dwalin as twilight came on.

"Imagine, one of the line of Durin living in such a place." Dwalin grumbled as they approached her door, "That King is too bold to make such a suggestion."

Thistle remained quiet, pausing at the doorknob.

"Are ye seriously considering such a thing, lass?" Dwalin asked, gripping her forearm gently.

"I have never felt like I belonged anywhere, Dwalin." Thistle began tentatively, "Perhaps to be in a place where neither my mother nor father dwelt may shed more light on who I am."

Dwalin pulled away, eyeing her gravely, "If this is your decision, Thistle, I'll gladly take up residence in the wood. But be aware, Thranduil is a persuasive and wise King."

Thistle nodded, "I shall speak with Gandalf on it tomorrow. For now, may we postpone our journey?"

Dwalin nodded, "As you wish, girl."

As Thistle smiled up at him, his face relaxed.

"It is a boon to me to see you rested and well." He murmured, "You looked better than you have in months."

He reached out, laying a tattooed hand on the bare arch where her neck met her shoulder. Running his thumb over her collar bone, Thistle looked up at him. He gave a weak smile but turned away abruptly, releasing her.

"Get some rest," He grumbled as he turned down the hall, "I shall try to, though in these dank ruins I'm not sure if I shall."

Thistle smiled to herself, resting her hand on her shoulder where the warmth of his touch still lingered. Pulling her door open, she found that it had been cleared of her bathing things and her clothes lay clean on the chair. On her bed lay a simple gown of gold with a sheer white robe to wear over it. Elves did not sleep but she assumed they wore such things when they were at rest. Changing from the ornate dress into the new one her hosts had provided, Thistle laid down on the new blankets of her day bed and soon feel into another deep sleep.

She was not sure what time it was when a knock at her door awakened her. Stirring from the bed, she wrapped the robe around her and padded with bare feet to the door. Carefully pushing it open, Thistle was surprised to find the elf Prince standing in the light of a few tapers lining the walls. He was dressed in a simple green tunic, much like the make of the gown she wore.

"My lady, I am sorry to have awoken you." He began, his voice unwavering, "But I did not know if you were planning on leaving at dawn and I wished to speak to you."

Thistle was intrigued by the elf. Emerging into the hall, she closed the door as quietly as she could behind her.

"I am not leaving but you may speak with me none the less."

Legolas nodded, "Very well then, follow me."

Without another word, he strode down the passage. Taken aback by his abrupt behavior, Thistle followed after a moment as they made their way towards a steep stairwell soaked in moonlight leading into the wood.


	6. Under the Eaves of the Wood

The forest surrounding the Halls of Thranduil was distinctly different from that which she and Dwalin had traveled Thistle began to sense the wood as it truly was the farther Legolas led her through the maze of trees. The stars shone brighter here, casting their shade over the gently wafting leaves. She wondered if this was how the world was in the time before men when only elves trod the land beneath the endless glow of constellations.

They entered a glade much like the one where she had grown up. The trees stood tall against the sky. The elf prince paused, holding up a hand for her to stop as he gazed up into the canopy.

"The dark wilderness you saw on our borders was not always as it is today." He spoke quietly without looking at her, "And just yesterday, this place was just as twisted and plagued with shadows."

Thistle lifted a brow, glancing up towards the healthy, full foliage and listening to the clear rushing of an undisturbed stream nearby. The earth was strong here, she could see or sense no sign of rot in this glade.

"This place? Are you certain?"

Legolas turned to her and gave her a look that made her shrink back.

"Of course." Thistle glanced down in mortification, "This has been your kingdom for countless years."

When she looked up again, Legolas had moved before her. He studied her closely, the starlight giving his fair hair a peculiar iridescence.

"Even though you are not of our people, you have had a deeper impact on our wood than any other in an age." He spoke, his hands folded behind his back, "I wanted to show you the importance of your presence."

"Are you implying that this place is well again because of me?"

"I know it to be." Legolas nodded, "I understand the history between your father and mine is not a good one. I am sorry for the grievance we caused Thorin. It was not right. But you and I are of a different time. Thistle, there is an evil growing like none have ever known in this age. Anything between your people and mine must be resolved if we are to work together against it."

"I have no people." Thistle replied, surprising herself at the candidacy of her statement.

Legolas eyed her curiously, "You truly believe that, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Perhaps you were born for a time such as this, Thistle." Legolas reached out and lifted her chin much like his father had but there was a tenderness to his touch that Thranduil did not possess, "I fear there will soon be a time when all free peoples of this Middle Earth must learn to stand together in unity or fall. We must all pretend that we have no people of our own so that we may survive as one."

The prophetic quality to his words made Thistle shiver slightly.

"I thought the evil in this wood was driven out by Mithrandir?" She asked.

Legolas met her eyes reluctantly and moved away, "Driven out perhaps, but my father and I fear not all together destroyed."

"What would you have me do then? What could I possibly do against such darkness?"

"Stand, River-Child." Legolas replied, "Stand, daughter of Durin. Your mere presence here has brought life back into the very roots of the forest. You will not be alone."

"May my companion stay if he wishes as well?"

A glimmer of distaste passed over Legolas's placid face, "The dwarf?"

"Yes, Dwalin son of Fundin."

"If you wish it, River-Child, the dwarf may stay as long as he wishes. I will speak to my father personally of this matter and see that your request is granted."

Thistle glanced once more around the glade, the sky to the east lightening to the color of fresh ash. She closed her eyes. The earth was humming with new life where there had been only death. It awakened something within her that she had not felt since the passing of her parents. There was hope here, however fragile, and it needed to be protected. Like a small flame in a windy meadow, it required nurturing.

This was a chance for her to find meaning and purpose.

"Tell your father," Thistle began firmly, "That I accept his kind offer and will remain here in the Greenwood for a time."

Legolas gave a quiet smile and nodded, "So it shall be, River-Child."

* * *

Legolas watched Thistle as she stood before his father in the great hall. After their discussion in the wood the night before, she had come to accept the king's offer to remain under the eaves of the forest. He remained to the side of the great dais where Thranduil sat enthroned, listening with pleasure to her compliance to his request.

He knew his father possessed the wisdom of the ages but he saw a certain cold ruthlessness in the ancient king. When he was young, Legolas had been concerned that he would grow to be just as icy. However, long conversations with Mithrandir had put such fears to rest centuries ago. Though he respected his father, Legolas knew he was a different individual with a different path to follow.

He had sensed that they were coming to a climax in their age. Though he did not possess the gift of foresight, he sensed that the evil that had been festering in his beloved forest would not be so easily defeated. Though momentarily suppressed, it would only be a matter of time till they would have to face it in a much more dramatic arena.

Legolas studied Thistle. She bowed her head as Thranduil extended his hand in blessing. Her dark curls fell forward, shading her moon bright face. Though the dwarf King's blood clearly ran through her veins, the ethereal nature of her mother's people was surfacing more and more the longer she remained in the Greenwood. It was as though something that had lain dormant within the girl was finally coming to light.

None in Middle Earth were able to understand the mystery of Goldberry and Tom Bombadil, yet their presence was something undeniable. Legolas had been struck from the moment he met her in the glade of spiders by that same other-worldliness to which the girl was oblivious. That same spirit combined with the earthiness of her dwarven heritage made her a fascinating contrast. Legolas was captivated in her presence, but refrained from displaying his interest.

She lifted her head and opened her eyes.

"King, I make a request." She began humbly.

"What do you wish, River Child?"

"I ask permission for my companion Dwalin son of Fundin to remain in your kingdom by my side. He is my friend and swore to my father as he lay dying to protect me."

"I can assure, maiden, that you will be safe in my realm if the dwarf would prefer to leave." Thranduil replied, shifting slightly in his throne.

"Of that I have no doubt. I believe for him it is more a matter of honoring his vow to his friend."

Thranduil's dark brow lowered in thought as he rested his chin on his folded hands. Legolas took a step onto the dais.

"King, may I speak to you?" Legolas spoke quietly, meeting his father's eyes briefly.

Thranduil nodded silently and motioned for him to approach the throne.

"Father, I personally will see to the keeping of Lady Thistle and our dwarven guest." Legolas offered, folding his hands behind his back where he stood beside the throne, "I do not believe he is a threat and will be kept under close supervision by my archers."

Thranduil was quiet for a moment. His gaze, as clear and sharp as fresh melted snow, trailed over to where the dwarf stood by Mithrandir. Dwalin was large for his kind. His heavily tattooed arms were crossed over his barreled chest and his feet planted firmly shoulder length apart. He kept his heavy gaze on Thistle and had not acknowledged the elves present as he had entered the throne room. Though Legolas was no lover of dwarves, he had to admire Dwalin for his faithfulness to his ward. No matter what the King spoke today, he knew that the dwarf would never leave Thistle as long as he lived.

Thranduil looked back at Thistle and stood, the sleeve of his dark green robe rippling like water over forest moss as he lifted a graceful hand.

"So shall it be, River-Child, your protector shall remain by your side as long as he wishes with the understanding that he should abide by the statutes and laws of this Kingdom as he does." Thranduil nodded, his nose wrinkling slightly as he briefly glanced over at Dwalin once more.

"Thank you, my Lord." Thistle bowed her head and backed away respectfully.

As Thranduil turned back to his throne, he caught Legolas by the wrist before he could leave the dais.

"I expect you to abide by your promise, son." Thranduil whispered, his face remaining expressionless, "Keep the dwarf under your constant watch, understood?"

Legolas bit his tongue. Though he respected his father, he hated the moments when Thranduil would speak to him as though he was still a child and not nearly a millennium old. He always seemed to take the same tone if he ever intervened unbidden in matters of the Kingdom.

"So shall it be, my lord." Legolas replied, Thranduil loosing him wordlessly.

* * *

**Author's Note: Thank you all for your reviews! I'm sorry I haven't updated in so long, I couldn't figure out where to take it for a minute but I think I have a better idea now! Yall are AWESOME! I'm so stoked you've enjoyed the story, I have been enjoying writing it (:**


	7. Words Unsaid

Thistle righted herself from where she knelt over a patch of wild mushroom. There was a familiar musk in the light breeze that stirred the curls loose from her braid. She brushed a strand behind her ear and turned in the direction of the wind, the midday sun banishing any shadow in that corner of the Greenwood. Holding her basket full of berries and edible buds to her waist, a smile played at the edge of her mouth. Legolas lighted from the branches above, landing as deftly as a cat to the forest floor.

"I suppose I should have remained downwind to evade your notice, my lady." Legolas remarked casually, folding his hands behind his back.

"I suppose so, Prince." Thistle moved towards him, "What brings you to my glade?"

"Just making certain you have all you need." Legolas replied, walking beside her as they made their way down the forest path.

"We are very comfortable, thank you." Thistle answered, unsure of how to continue the conversation.

Since they had settled in a little glade to the west of the Great Halls, Thistle had found it easy to acclimate to her environment. The past fortnight had been spent relearning all she had forgotten in sensing the forest since her long winter in the stone grandeur of Erebor. Yet there was a distinct difference about this place from her home in the west. In the passing days, she had found an odd occurrence upon entering a part of the wood tainted by the shadow. Her fingertips would burn as she ran them over the rough, ancient bark of the tree trunks. Instead of finding herself retreating from the darkness, it scattered before her like leaves in the wind.

"My father sends his greetings." Legolas continued, "He has remarked multiple times on the state of the wood where you have wandered. It's as though it had never been contaminated."

"And yet the evil still remains here," She ventured quietly with a sideways glance at the elf prince.

Legolas's face grew grave, "I fear that may be the case for some time to come."

They entered the small glade where her home had been built. Dwalin was at work on his smithy that he insisted on creating. Though minerals would not be in as much abundance as they were in Erebor, the forest held secreted caves and boulders waiting to be harvested of their metals. Despite his woodland surroundings, Dwalin could not squelch his natural desire for the fires of the forge.

Sinking his axe into a nearby stump, Dwalin turned towards them as they emerged from the copse of oak. His brow furrowed at seeing the elf. Rubbing his hands on his soiled, leather apron, he ignored Legolas's nod of greeting towards him. With a grunt, he lifted a bundle of kindle and without a word entered the cottage.

"I beg your pardon, my prince." Thistle spoke hurriedly, her face burning in mortification, "Dwalin was not expecting company."

Legolas held up a hand with a shake of his head, "Think nothing of it. I am not unaccustomed to the tense relations of dwarves and elves."

Thistle shrugged. She could feel Dwalin's gaze bearing down on them from the cottage. She wished he would learn to accept their current lot and be done with this childish behavior. However, Thistle had come to learn that there was no quelling the stubbornness of dwarves.

"What is the nature of your relationship with the dwarf, Thistle?" Legolas asked abruptly, catching Thistle off guard with his frankness.

"I do not understand what you mean?" Thistle turned to face him.

Legolas's eyes drifted over to the cottage briefly before capturing her face, "I know that you see the dwarf as your protector and your father's friend. But how does he see you?"

"I am the last of the line of Durin. My family line is the most respected in all of dwarvish culture."

"He guards you with a more personal nature than just as the last of an ancient family line." Legolas continued, his eyes probing her face curiously.

"What are you implying?"

The way the elf looked at her made her skin tingle as though she stood before a furnace. His mouth straightened into a tense line before breaking into an easy smile.

"Nothing, my lady." He replied, "I must mention something else while I am here. My father will be holding a feast tomorrow evening in honor of the change of seasons as spring has fully arrived. You and your companion are welcomed to attend."

"Thank you, I would be honored." Thistle replied, nodding her head in acquiesce.

Legolas looked back at the cottage once more, "I must be going but we will expect your attendance tomorrow at the Halls of my father."

Thistle nodded wordlessly as he turned and left her standing in the broad daylight, mulling over his strange question.

Dwalin stalked from the front window to the newly assembled hearth as Thistle entered the cottage. He knelt before the fireplace, grumbling as he relit the cooking fire. Thistle set the basket on the table he had recently made and studied him, trying to suppress her irritation at him. Her mother had always been so composed and patient, it was no wonder Lirare had stayed in love with the stubborn dwarf king as long as she had even in his absence. However much she aspired to be like Lirare and Goldberry, Thistle could not deny her tendency to aggressively confront an issue instead of peaceably resolving it.

"What was that out there?" She demanded, perching a hand on her hip.

Dwalin rose and gave her a look of consternation, "What are ye speaking of, woman?"

"You know exactly what, Dwalin." She stomped towards him before the hearth with a glare, "Your blatant display of rudeness to our host."

Dwalin scoffed, turning his attention to the flint in his large hands, "Our _host _thinks just as much of me as I of him and his father."

"Legolas is not Thranduil."

"An elf is an elf, lass." He grumbled without looking at her, "They're all the same lot."

"Just the same, I expect you to at least _feign_ graciousness while we are in their kingdom. They have provided us with this home."

"_I_ have provided you this home, not your wilting princeling, Thistle." Dwalin bellowed facing her toe to toe, "It was _I_ who built this cottage and all within it for you!"

"Legolas is not _my princeling_!" Thistle spit back.

"He pays you enough attention, lass."

"What does that mean?" Thistle's voice rose to a volume where it was rarely brought, "He is merely seeing to our needs."

"First of all, that elfling has no interest in seeing to the needs of a dwarf." Dwalin put a finger in her face heatedly, "Secondly, he has insisted on leering at you from the moment you entered this festering place."

"Legolas does not leer at me."

Dwalin let out a bark of laughter, "You know very little of men then because he looks like he can barely keep himself from panting like a dog around you."

Glaring into his red face, Thistle retained enough sense to keep from slapping him.

"What does it matter to you how the prince looks at me?" She demanded.

Dwalin's expression fell into from anger to confusion.

"Lass," He boomed, "I donnae care how the elfling looks at ye but for the sake of your father."

"Then for the sake of my father, I order you to behave while we are the guests of the elves."

Thistle bit her lip the moment the words came from her mouth. She had never pulled rank on Dwalin. She knew in her position as the only child of Thorin Oakenshield, she held a certain authority over him. However, she had not meant to sound so demeaning towards him as though he were a disobedient child.

Dwalin scowled, "Bah."

He dropped to the floor once more to see to the fire. Thistle took a deep breath, trying to regain self-control.

"Dwalin, there is a feast to be held at the Halls of Thranduil tomorrow evening and I have accepted the elves' invitation to it." She commented as calmly as possible.

Dwalin swore in khuzdul under his breath as the fire refused to catch light.

"Will you attend with me?"

"I donnae' care what you do with yerself, lass." He growled without looking up at her.

Thistle tried not to allow his comment to sting. She blinked as a heavy silence descended between them. Without another word, she picked up a nearby bowl of blackberries and retreated to the steps leading to her second floor bedroom.

The late afternoon breeze drifted through her white curtains. Approaching the open window, she breathed in the spring air and closed her eyes. They had never fought like that before. His words bounced around in her memory. Dwalin was wrong, of course. Legolas had not shown her an inordinate amount of attention. Though she could not imagine why it would matter so to him. Perhaps Dwalin saw it as an insult to his people. However, she could not forget what Legolas had asked concerning the nature of her relationship with Dwalin. It plagued her.

She did not leave her room for the rest of the evening.

* * *

Dwalin worked furiously at constructing his forge the whole of the next day. He kept from entering the cottage as much as possible, reluctant to face Thistle. After his anger had ebbed, he was left regretting all he had said to her.

He pounded a ceiling beam into place, the sunlight dying behind him. Slipping the hammer into his apron, he leaped to the ground to judge his handiwork. He stalked the ground, grumbling about the state of his forge. It would just have to do for now.

Glancing over at the quiet cottage, he rubbed the back of his neck in dismay. He had never been good at words, though most dwarves did not possess that gift. Balin would have known what to say to the girl. That stinking elf prince would probably have a pretty line or two to woo her trust once more if he were in his place. He grimaced at the thought and sat hard down on the forge, picking up the ladle from a bucket of spring water and pouring it over his head. He shook his head, running his heavy hand down his face.

As the water cleared from his vision, Dwalin blinked as a figure at the entrance of the forge came into focus. Thistle stood framed in the golden light of the sunset. Her hand rested on the door frame. Her long sleeve of elvish cloth left a trailing shadow on the ground. The gown was the color of sapphires found in the deepest mines, matching her unsettling gaze. She had wound her dark hair onto the top of her head, blue wildflowers dotting it like stars in a cloudless sky. She was beautiful. Dwalin found it difficult to look at her. He stood, setting the ladle in the bucket as the crickets sang out in the wood around them.

"Are you certain you will not accompany me?" She began tentatively.

Her voice was so beseeching he had to turn away.

"We both know that invitation was more for you than me, lass." He commented, turning to an uneven plank in the wall with his hammer.

"I will miss your company." She edged into the smithy, approaching him.

"You will do just fine without me for the night," He grumbled, "Your elf hosts will keep you entertained, I'm sure."

Thistle paused. The steady thump of his hammer echoed across the glade. She reached out and laid a steady hand on his forearm. Dwalin stopped but did not look at her.

"I am sorry for all I said yesterday." She nearly whispered.

Dwalin closed his eyes briefly, "Aye lass. All is well."

"Dwalin, please." Thistle tightened her grip on him, "Will you not look at me?"

The dwarf turned his gaze on her, studying her face with the same ardor as a starving man looks on a loaf of bread. She raised a hand and rested it on his cheek as she had frequently while they were at Erebor. However, it felt different to him this time.

"Dwalin-"

Dwalin pulled away abruptly towards to the forge, "You should be going lass before it gets dark. See that you are brought home by an elf. Do not walk this wood alone at night, no matter how safe it seems."

He kept his back to her, the only sound being the chorus of birds heralding the coming twilight over their heads. When he finally turned once more, she had disappeared. He sighed, approaching the door frame and resting a well-muscled forearm on the newly hewn wood. Her slight frame disappeared into the gathering shadows of the wood, leaving him to wonder what she had wanted to say before he had cut her off.


	8. A Unique Beauty

Thranduil's halls were brightly lit as Thistle emerged alone from the cover of the wood. She felt her belly tense as she approached the grand entrance. The elves standing guard were engaged in relaxed conversation. They paused and stood at attention as she drew closer. Nodding politely, she ascended the grand staircase into the intricate halls.

It was not difficult for her to find where the feast was being held. The echoing sounds of elvish flutes and lyres coupled with merry laughter led her to the open courtyard where she had eaten with the King their first night in his kingdom. There were a great many of Thranduil's people present and they mingled joyfully from grand table to table. Platters of delicacies were scattered around the room and it looked as though fine elvish wine had been flowing for quite some time.

Thistle entered the room, keeping to the edge of the walls. She immediately felt as out of place as she had when she had been there last. Keeping her hands folded before her, she let her gaze drop to the floor.

"My dear girl!" She heard voice cry out.

She looked up in surprise to see Gandalf approaching her, smiling widely. Upon announcing her decision to remain in the wood, the wizard had left soon after. She had not expected to see him in the Greenwood again so promptly. However, she could not have been more thankful for a familiar face at that moment.

Gandalf pulled away after embracing her warmly, "Where is Dwalin?"

"He remained at our cottage in the wood." She shrugged with a tentative smile, "He did not feel comfortable attending."

"He let you come here alone?" Gandalf's tone was probing as he searched her face, "That does not sound like him."

Thistle shrugged again, grabbing a cup of wine from a tray as an elf carried it past. After taking a deep drink from it, she was startled by Gandalf as he let out a rolling laughter.

"Thranduil's feasts are a mite overwhelming if you have never attended one before but it is quite a merry gathering." Gandalf led her to a quiet table to observe the hall, "You look beautiful as always, my dear."

"Thank you," She replied, "I cannot help but still feel inadequate around these elf maidens."

"Thistle, your beauty is unmatched because you are one of a kind." Gandalf began, sitting down and motioning for Thistle to do the same, "Quite literally the only one of your kind."

"There are many half dwarfs in the world, are there not?"

"Perhaps, but not one quite like you."

Thistle lifted a dark brow at the wizard. Gandalf gave her a quiet smile.

"Thistle, you still don't understand how unique you are." He began, gazing over at the head table where Thranduil watched the scene before him in amusement, "The King here recognizes it. Keep your wits about yourself where he is concerned."

"What do you mean, friend?"

"I will try to explain it as simply as I can," He started, facing her, "Your grandmother, Goldberry, there is a belief that she is not of this world."

"Of Middle Earth?" Thistle repeated.

"We are not sure what or who, but it is possible she is a spirit of Ainur."

Thistle looked at him quizzically, "You mean, the eternal spirits of the west?"

"Yes," Gandalf nodded, "That is why she and Tom Bombadil have never been very connected with the goings on of this world. That is also why your mother, who was closer in being to them than you are, never ventured from her wood. Lirare's only true link to this world was Thorin and then you."

Thistle was bowled over by this confession. She took another long draw from her cup.

"I am sorry to explain this to you in such a hectic setting but I am not sure how long I will remain here," Gandalf continued, "It is important for you to understand your lineage. Your blood was in essence purified by your father's dwarvish heritage. You will be needed by this world in a way your mother never was required."

"But what are you saying? My mother never knew her father, there is a possibility that he was as mortal as my father was." Thistle's mind was spinning, "Lirare was important."

Gandalf paused, "Of course your mother was important, just in a different way than you are. And her father was not mortal, this much we know."

"You know who my grandfather was?"

"It is very important his identity remain secret." Gandalf met her gaze sharply, "Do you understand?"

Thistle nodded, her mouth going dry.

"We cannot be sure but upon meeting Lirare, Radagast and I came to the conclusion that her sire was one of our order. A blue wizard, I'm not sure which one. However, he disappeared into the east before we could question him."

Thistle blinked, "So you are saying my mother possessed a spirit as immortal as her mother?"

Gandalf nodded, "The head of my order, Saruman, must never know that one of the Istari sired a child while here in Middle Earth. He would see it as a danger, he would see _you_ as a danger."

Thistle let her eyes trail across the hall to the King.

"Does Thranduil know?"

"I have never told him but I'm sure he recognized the possibility. He is not an evil ruler but a shrewd one. He wishes to wield you like a weapon against the darkness, no matter the outcome to you, I fear."

Thistle shivered as the King's gaze rested on her across the room. She gave a shaky smile and a nod. She watched as he held out a hand and beckoned his son over. Legolas had changed from his normal forest wear into a fine silver, grey tunic. Thranduil's eyes grazed over Thistle once more as he spoke to his son.

"Legolas can be trusted though." Gandalf laid a reassuring hand over her own, "Thistle, if you are to remain here in the Greenwood, rely only upon Dwalin and Legolas. Though they may be as different as oil and water, they are good and both seem to love you."

Thistle looked over at Gandalf in surprise at his statement, "They watch over me because they are obligated, not out of affection."

Gandalf lifted a bushy brow and took a draw of wine, "My dear girl, I have lived many lives of men. Believe me. You have captured the heart and loyalty of two of the most trustworthy warriors in Middle Earth. Do try to keep your wits about you."

Giving her hand a pat, Gandalf rose with a knowing look and retreated towards the musicians. Thistle looked after him, dumbfounded by the conversation she had just experienced.

"Lady Thistle?"

Thistle stood abruptly at the sound of her name, nearly knocking her chair over. She laid a hand over her abdomen and closed her eyes briefly before turning with a smile. Legolas studied her.

"Our wine is strong for those with any mortal blood." He commented approaching her, "You must be careful with it, no matter how uncomfortable you feel."

Thistle nodded, feeling slightly unsteady on her feet.

"I'm just realizing that," She laughed lightly, "I think I need a little air."

Legolas reached out, taking her hand and placing on his arm. Leading her towards the wide balcony, Thistle breathed in the fresh night air as they came to the beautifully carved railing. She rested her hands on it, trying to gather her thoughts.

"Are you all right?" He asked with genuine concern, "Where is your protector this evening?"

Thistle couldn't stop herself from scoffing, "He took the night off, I suppose."

"You argued?"

She nodded silently as he leaned against the railing beside her.

"I hope it wasn't on my account."

"No." Thistle rested a hand on his arm briefly in reassurance, "Dwalin is merely stubborn."

"He does not like you being here among us." Legolas ascertained.

As she shook her head, she felt his fingers tuck a loose curl back up into the mound of hair on her head. She looked over at him as he righted a blossom that had started to fall towards her ear. He met her eyes, the moment stealing her breath.

"He is frightened of what he does not understand, I suppose." She said, her voice above a whisper.

Legolas placed a hand over her own, "There are many like that in the world."

"Why do you accept me despite my dwarvish blood?" She queried, "You know of our fathers' history."

"As far as I am concerned, you are not your father as I am not mine." He concluded logically, "We have the chance to live in contradiction of their legacy if we wish it."

"Do you wish it?"

He turned his gaze on her once more. As he had before, he lifted her chin with his knuckle.

"Do you, my lady?"

Thistle swallowed as he began to lean his face close to her own. Just as his lips brushed hers, a voice interrupted the moment.

"Son," Thranduil's tone was calm but authoritative, "You have a duty to see to the guard at the door, I believe."

They parted quickly. Thistle's eyes were wide as she watched the King's imposing form approach them.

"I was just about to, father."

"Best see to it then." Thranduil replied with an icy, closed lipped smile to his son.

Legolas stiffened, releasing Thistle's hand, "If you will excuse me, my lady."

Thistle's heart started to beat hard in her chest as he departed, leaving her alone with the ancient King. Thranduil approached her calmly.

"Lovely night, is it not?" He commented casually, "You are beautiful, daughter of Durin."

His tone as he called her by her dwarvish title was tinged slightly with sarcasm. However, his face remained as serene as ever. He stood beside her, looking out at the night.

"I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful we are to have you with us."

"Thank you for your hospitality." Thistle replied, keeping her eyes down.

"You are very welcome." He answered, "I see my son has been seeing to your needs."

"He has been very gracious, your highness."

"His attentions have not been inappropriate, I trust?"

Thistle paused unsure of how to reply to such a point blank question, "My Lord?"

"Legolas has a weakness for…unique beauty." Thranduil turned her towards him, his touch making her wish for Gandalf to appear, "I hope he has not made any advances that would be deemed unnatural between an elf and a half dwarven maid."

Thistle flinched at his words, meeting his sharp gaze tentatively.

"Unnatural?"

"I'm sure your father would have agreed with me, don't you think?" Thranduil asked casually, "If my son has misled you in his feelings toward you, I can assure you he meant no offense."

Thistle pulled away from the King, "Do not fret, sire. I assure you he has done nothing of the kind."

Thranduil gave her his frigid smile and nodded slightly, "I am glad to hear it. Now if you'll excuse me, the guests will be expecting a toast soon."

Thistle curtsied, feeling as though she had been slapped. The King said nothing more but left her alone in the night.

She wondered why she had thought remaining in the Greenwood, much less attending the Feast, had been wise. Her thoughts shot back to Dwalin at the cottage. She could almost see him seated by the fire with his boots propped up against the hearth, a cloud of pipe smoke surrounding his head. The gnawing need for his presence bit into her and left her breathless. She roughly brushed the tears springing to her eyes. All she could think to do was get home to Dwalin.

Lifting her skirts, she entered the hall that had grown quiet with the King's voice. Slipping out the door, she didn't stop to bid Gandalf farewell or even ask for an escort home as Dwalin requested she do.

It was a short walk from the Hall to her glade. She was certain she would be home in no time.


End file.
